ed a very connecting remembrance of that part of my
life contained in this book; yet I think I remember, about the same
period, another journey to Lyons, (the particulars of which I cannot
recollect) where I found myself much straitened, and a confused
remembrance of the extremities to which I was reduced does not contribute
to recall the idea agreeably. Had I been like many others, had I
possessed the talent of borrowing and running in debt at every ale-house
I came to, I might have fared better; but in that my incapacity equalled
my repugnance, and to demonstrate the prevalence of both, it will be
sufficient to say, that though I have passed almost my whole life in
indifferent circumstances, and frequently have been near wanting bread,
I was never once asked for money by a creditor without having it in my
power to pay it instantly; I could never bear to contract clamorous
debts, and have ever preferred suffering to owing.

Being reduced to pass my nights in the streets, may certainly be called
suffering, and this was several times the case at Lyons, having preferred
buying bread with the few pence I had remaining, to bestowing them on a
lodging; as I was convinced there was less danger of dying for want of
sleep than of hunger. What is astonishing, while in this unhappy
situation, I took no care for the future, was neither uneasy nor
melancholy, but patiently waited an answer to Mademoiselle du Chatelet's
letter, and lying in the open air, stretched on the earth, or on a bench,
slept as soundly as if reposing on a bed of roses. I remember,
particularly, to have passed a most delightful night at some distance
from the city, in a road which had the Rhone, or Soane, I cannot
recollect which, on the one side, and a range of raised gardens, with
terraces, on the other. It had been a very hot day, the evening was
delightful, the dew moistened the fading grass, no wind was stirring,
the air was fresh without chillness, the setting sun had tinged the
clouds with a beautiful crimson, which was again reflected by the water,
and the trees that bordered the terrace were filled with nightingales who
were continually answering each other's songs. I walked along in a kind
of ecstasy, giving up my heart and senses to the enjoyment of so many
delights, and sighing only from a regret of enjoying them alone.
Absorbed in this pleasing reverie, I lengthened my walk till it grew very
late, without perceiving I was tired; at length, how